


i love it when you try to save me

by noeller



Series: love languages [1]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Domestic Fluff, Light Angst, Mentions of 3x06, Mentions of Canonical Abuse, Minor Injuries, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:28:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26248690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noeller/pseuds/noeller
Summary: to Mickey, loving someone means taking care of them no matter what, and he’s never loved anyone the way he loves Ian Gallagher.or: snapshots of a well-deserved domesticity
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: love languages [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1906831
Comments: 64
Kudos: 370





	i love it when you try to save me

**Author's Note:**

> Alternatively: Mickey Milkovich is an Acts of Service Gay, and he and his husband take care of each other.
> 
> (side note: I know the Shameless timeline hasn’t made sense literally ever, so just be aware that this was written with the thought that Ian and Mickey got married in November)

Mickey sighs, rubbing his fingers against his forehead, trying to stave off the stress headache that’s been coming and going for a couple days now. The shrink’s waiting area is quiet and empty. The office doesn’t technically open for another 20 minutes, so it’s just Mickey and the receptionist sipping what he assumes is coffee from a travel mug.

It’s been 8 days since the wedding, 4 since Terry was arrested for clipping some rich dude with a stray bullet at the Love Canal, and 3 since Ian looked up at Mickey with teary eyes when he tried to get his husband out of bed. Saying it was shocking would be a lie. Getting married was gonna be stressful and possibly triggering for Ian _before_ Terry burned down their venue, pointed a gun at the kids Ian went to prison trying to protect, and tried to kill them both on their first day as husbands. Add on the events surrounding Debbie’s arrest and Lip’s relapse, it’s honestly a fucking miracle Ian held it together as long as he did.

It’s been hard. Ian’s mostly been sleeping, but he’s been absolutely miserable when he’s not. He cries and apologizes a thousand times for something that Mickey couldn’t possibly blame him for, and he gets freaked out when Mickey is gone all day, but he has to work at the mall since it’s nearing the holiday season and everyone has to work more. The thought of not being around to watch Ian while he’s in this state is nearly unbearable, but thankfully, various Gallaghers volunteer their time over the weekend, so he’s never alone for _too_ long.

Now, it’s Monday morning, and Ian’s shrink had to squeeze him in early so he wouldn’t have to wait until later in the week to see her. Normally, this is something Ian prefers to do on his own, so this is the first time Mickey’s actually been here. It smells faintly of lavender, which is only adding to the ache in his head, and he doesn’t love that Ian’s back there by himself when he’s in a state that makes it difficult to defend himself if he doesn’t like something that’s being said, but the shrink insisted it should be one-on-one, and, well, they can’t afford to piss this chick off. She’s lenient about their payments since they don’t have insurance just yet, so they’ll probably have to go back to a sliding scale clinic if they burn this bridge, and Mickey would _still_ love to throttle that bitch nurse that so callously told Ian he needed to make that list for when his meds gave out.

The appointment doesn’t last long. Ian’s not exactly in a chatty mood, so Mickey can’t imagine that any of the doc’s questions are getting more than a couple words in response, but they get what they need, make a follow-up appointment, and stop by the pharmacy on the way back to the house. Ian takes his morning dose with some buttered toast when they get home, and he’s out cold 30 minutes later.

It’s a pretty minor adjustment, a miniscule increase to the dosage amount of something Ian’s been taking for years. It’s nothing like the original shit show when the doctors were pretending that giving a stubborn teenager something as hardcore and dangerous as lithium was a good idea, or when the quack they called a shrink in Beckman switched Ian to the off-brand version of his antipsychotics as a cost-cutting measure and he started getting random nosebleeds, but it’s still gonna fuck with him for a few days.

So Mickey lets him stay in bed, makes sure he eats, and watches out for symptoms other than drowsiness and shaking hands, which he’s been informed are perfectly normal in this situation. Ian pouts on day 3 when he realizes that Mickey hasn’t brought any coffee with his breakfast, and Mickey feels this bone-deep sense of _relief_ when he sees actual human emotion on his husband’s face.

Two days later, Ian’s mostly _Ian_ again. Still tired and shaky, but also smiling and making dumb jokes and grumbling instead of looking dead when Mickey wakes him up. Ian.

Mickey’s showering and reluctantly allowing his somehow-hygiene-obsessed husband to floss while he finishes up, and he startles when Ian groans loudly and says, “I can’t fuckin’ take this thing anymore.”

He peeks out from behind the curtain, concerned -- why wouldn’t he be concerned by that after the week they’ve had -- and sees Ian scratching at the overgrown facial hair he hasn’t had the energy to deal with for a couple days. “Jesus Christ, Ian,” he breathes out, partially relieved by the fact that Ian’s not having some sort of meltdown, partially exasperated by his husband’s overly exaggerated frustration. “So fuckin’ dramatic.”

Mickey turns the water off, stepping out of the shower and grabbing a towel while Ian watches. “It itches, Mick,” he says.

“Then shave it.”

Ian gives him an ‘are you kidding?’ look. “I’d be a bloody mess by the end of that,” he says, holding up one of his shaking hands. Mickey sighs and fixes the towel around his waist.

“Where’s your razor?” he asks. Ian looks confused, but hands over the bag with all his shit in it, because, again, he’s somehow the type of person that gives a fuck about what he puts on his hair and face. Enough to keep it all in a small bag so his siblings know it’s his, anyway. “Sit,” Mickey says, guiding Ian to take a seat on the closed lid of the toilet. He wets his hands a little and runs them over the lower half of Ian’s face. “I like it, you know. You never let it get this long.”

Ian hums and looks up at him, that wide-eyed look that reminds Mickey so much of the way things were when they were kids, when they were both pretending it was just sex instead of the most intense thing either of them had ever felt. “Promise I’ll grow it back for you when I feel better.”

“Yeah?” Ian smiles.

“Mickey Milkovich, I vow to give you beard burn all over your fucking body whenever you want for the rest of your life.” Mickey pauses with the bottle of shaving gel in his hand.

“Not tonight, though?”

Ian sighs. “I don’t think he’s gonna join us tonight,” he says, gesturing down to his crotch, where his dick hasn’t quite made a comeback from the depression just yet.

“No?” 

Ian shakes his head. “I’m sorry,” he sighs. Mickey waves him off, assuming it’s about the lack of sex, which he’s fine with. He grabs Ian’s face, feeling the drops of water clinging to the hairs across his jaw, and positions it so he can lather up the foam and spread it out evenly. “You shouldn’t have to take care of me,” Ian whispers shamefully.

“Look up,” Mickey says, bending down to make sure all the hairs under Ian’s chin are covered. “Thought I told you you’re not allowed to apologize for stupid shit.”

“Mickey--”

“Hush, Ian,” Mickey says. He tries to ignore the sad look in Ian’s eyes. Since the wedding, since Ian looked him in the eye and legally promised him the rest of his life in front of almost everyone they know that doesn’t want them dead, he’s found it easier to hear about Ian’s fears and insecurities. He doesn’t worry anymore that Ian’s going to use any of it as an excuse to leave him, but that doesn’t make it easier to see the man he loves in pain, and there’s been way too fucking much of that recently. Ian’s still not feeling 100% himself, and Mickey’s learned the hard way that trying to comfort him any way but physically and silently when he’s like this will probably just lead him down a self-deprecating thought spiral, and that’s absolutely the last thing he wants tonight.

So instead of saying anything, he rinses his hands, grabs the razor, and cradles the back of Ian’s head, tilting it up again before bringing the razor down on his skin. Ian reaches out, slipping his hands under Mickey’s towel and resting his hands on Mickey’s thighs, gently stroking with his thumbs, low enough to not be an inherently sexual move, but high enough that Mickey has to all but _beg_ his cock to not take any interest after not getting any for over a week. “I love you.”

He says it like a promise, and Mickey says, “I know,” because that’s what he needs to hear.

“This has been some honeymoon, huh?”

Mickey chuckles and turns around to rinse the razor before going back to shaving Ian. “Dad’s in jail, man. Probably gonna be there awhile. Best wedding gift we could get, if you ask me.”

“We should have a real honeymoon when your parole’s up, finally go to the beach together,” Ian suggests.

It used to make Mickey’s chest ache, the thought of what could’ve been, but it doesn’t anymore. Mexico was a fucking pipe dream the whole time. Ian never would’ve lasted down there, and once it was this tangible thing, he realized that, and they’re much better off for it. Sure, it hurt like hell, and Ian’s life became a fucking disaster, but now that they’ve done the hard part, they get to have each other legally, _safely_ for the very first time. This -- what they have right now -- is something that Mickey wouldn’t trade for fucking anything.

“Long as I don’t have to get a passport.”

“Sounds good.” Ian’s speaking in more of a calm mumble at this point, and he lets his eyes fall shut when Mickey tilts his head back further to get under his chin, and there’s just _something_ about this. Mickey knows Ian trusts him; he’s said so on multiple occasions, but this feels different than hearing it. Mickey literally has a blade pressed against Ian’s throat, and he doesn’t seem worried in the slightest. It’s _relaxing_ him.

Mickey has to turn around once more to rinse the razor, and Ian whines in a way that seems mostly involuntary at the loss of contact. Mickey smiles around a huff of laughter, holding Ian’s neck again and bending down to press a short peck to his nose. “Needy little bitch,” he says.

“You married me,” Ian mumbles.

“Alright, _my_ needy little bitch.” A lazy smile breaks out across Ian’s face at that, eyes still closed as he pulls Mickey closer by the legs.

A couple more swipes of the razor, and Ian’s bare-faced again. Mickey wets a rag and wipes off the remnants of the foam. Ian blinks sleepily, the cool water bringing him out of his tired daze, but he quietly allows Mickey to finish his routine up for him, soaking up the feeling of Mickey’s warm hands gently rubbing aftershave over his face.

“Meds?” Mickey asks.

Ian looks at him for a second, seeming to need time to process the question. “Took ‘em,” he mumbles.

“Good boy.” It takes another second, but Ian rolls his eyes playfully. Tired zombie or not, he knows when Mickey’s teasing him for his minor -- or not so minor, if you ask Mickey -- praise kink. “Ready for bed?”

“Mhm.”

\---

Black Friday is literally the most ridiculous and unnecessary holiday that’s ever been invented, in Mickey’s humble opinion.

He’s never really given a shit about it. He knew it was a _thing_ , but that’s only because he heard other people talk about it. It’s never something he’s had to deal with, but this is the kind of shit that trying to be an upstanding fucking citizen will get you.

Objectively, a holiday where everyone gets up early in the morning to go fight over stuff to get it cheaper sounds fucking _perfect_ to Mickey. Fuck Thanksgiving and Christmas and all that other bullshit. Give him an excuse to throw a couple punches.

Objectively.

In reality, the soccer moms that shop at Old Army are crazy bitches. Feral, psycho, whatever you wanna call it, but they’re fucking _violent_. Mickey’s been to prison twice, had his own father try to kill him more times than he can count on one hand, pedaled drugs for a fucking Mexican cartel, but he doesn’t think he’s ever been more scared than he is when he’s told to go break up the fight between two 30-year-old white ladies trying to get the last pair of size 6 light-wash skinny jeans.

It’s just the middle of the day when Mickey gets home, but he’s fucking wiped. He had to get up early to get to work, and, as previously mentioned, it was terrifying. On top of that, Ian wasn’t home last night. He _just_ got his EMT job back after groveling and retaking the exam right before the wedding, and he worked a 24-hour Thanksgiving Day shift to get back into his supervisor’s good graces. Mickey didn’t feel good about him doing that so soon after an episode, especially since he _also_ just got the boot off his leg and has been told he needs physical therapy to get him back to where he was before he broke it, but Ian insisted he’d be fine and it was the right thing for him to do. There was probably also an element of him just not wanting to be around the festivities at the Gallagher house, as minimal as they may have been, but given all the history there that Mickey probably doesn’t fully understand, that’s not his business.

He eats a sandwich consisting of leftover turkey and white bread when he gets home. It’s dry as fuck, but he just needs to eat something before he goes upstairs to crash for a few hours. He’s not expecting much of Ian. He can imagine that being a first responder on the South Side during Thanksgiving is pretty chaotic, so he’s expecting to find his husband either passed out or on his way there. Seeing him sitting up in bed, looking at something on his phone is a pleasant surprise.

“You’re alive,” Ian says when he sees Mickey.

“Fuckin’ barely. When’d you get home?”

“Half hour ago. Thought I’d wait for you.” Exhausted, Mickey strips down to his boxers and throws himself on the bed next to Ian. “Have fun at work?” he asks. Mickey hums, rubbing a tired hand over his face.

“Tons, you?” Ian shrugs.

“Two separate people came at me with knives last night. Rita had to take one of my calls so I could get enough sleep to not pass out when the fuckin’ mall riots started.”

“Explains why you’re not dead to the world,” Mickey says, and then, he’s laying on his stomach with Ian sitting on top of him so fast that he doesn’t even know how it happened. He’s too caught off guard to hold back a moan when Ian digs his hands into Mickey’s shoulders.

Ian leans forward until his lips brush the shell of Mickey’s ear, still repeating the same motion. “Missed you last night,” he says lowly. “Feel good?” 

Mickey nods. It’s probably very telling, how, after all these years and all the shit they’ve been through, Ian can still make Mickey fall apart in seconds just by touching him the right way, but he doesn’t care. He smiles, feeling Ian’s breath against his neck. “Feels fuckin’ great,” he says.

Ian takes one hand away, the other going to Mickey’s neck, a little more gentle than it was just a few seconds ago on his shoulder. He uses his free hand to get a few pumps from a bottle on their nightstand that Mickey’s never seen before. “What’s that?” he mumbles.

“Lotion,” Ian answers, spreading it around on Mickey’s back. It makes his hands feel even better when they move around, but the smell that hits Mickey is almost sickeningly sweet.

“Why’s it all fuckin’ fruity?” he asks. His eyes fall shut with a gasp when Ian hits a particularly tense spot in the best way possible.

“‘Cause you’re fuckin’ fruity,” Ian says. He deserves retribution for that, but Mickey will do it later, when Ian’s not demonstrating the capabilities of his magical hands all across Mickey’s skin.

Mickey would like to know exactly how he learned to do this, because he’s perfect at it. He digs his fingers into some spots, working at the tension until Mickey feels like he’s melting, then gently runs his hands up and down all over in a way that makes Mickey tremble under him. He rewards Ian by being very vocal about his pleasure and takes even more in the fact that he can feel Ian hardening against his thigh more and more with every sound that escapes his lips.

At some point, his hands wander low enough to start grazing the top of Mickey’s boxers. He gasps every time he feels the elastic rub against his skin, wondering which time Ian will decide it’s enough and just rip them off. Unfortunately, he’s in a teasing mood, and the amount of restraint he has is both frustrating and fucking incredible, because he’s rock hard and Mickey feels like he’s going to _explode_ by the time he finally asks, “You ever gonna pull your cock out, Gallagher?”

Ian moves to the side to flip Mickey back over, so he’s on his back closer to the middle of the bed, and Mickey’s glad. He loves getting fucked by Ian no matter what way they do it, but he had the boot on his leg through the whole process of getting engaged and married. It made most positions difficult, and Ian being on top, supporting his own weight for more than a couple minutes was painful for him. Mickey never thought he’d be so glad to be able to comfortably be in the missionary position again, but face-to-face sex is important in a marriage, he thinks.

Ian gets on top again, smoothing his hands down Mickey’s shoulders and biceps. After a few teasing touches and lips brushing against Mickey’s own, he grabs the lube and sits back, pushing Mickey’s legs up and spreading them apart.

He doesn’t get much warning before there’s a finger in him, but he doesn’t mind. He wants Ian to hurry the fuck up, so he moves down as best he can, trying to speed up the process. “Shh,” Ian soothes, reaching up to brush his free hand over Mickey’s chest. Paired with the finger up his ass, it almost makes him _scream_. “Let me take care of you,” Ian whispers.

And Mickey would _love_ to do that, if only Ian weren’t taking fucking _years_ to get on with it. He says as much, to Ian’s amusement. He might’ve shot himself in the foot, though, because he doesn’t get any warning, other than the sound of Ian picking up the lube again, for the second finger entering him.

Ian, the punk, finds Mickey’s prostate and hooks his fingers, and _holy fuck_ , it feels good, especially after dragged-out -- albeit _fantastic_ \-- foreplay, but he won’t hear the end of it for days if he cums before Ian actually fucks him after complaining more than once about it, so he says, “I’m good, Ian,” even though he knows his husband can see right through him.

“I bet.” Mickey tries to glare, but Ian thrusts his fingers in one last time, and Mickey’s face screws up as Ian pulls out. He trails kisses all along Mickey’s belly and chest, pausing to get the lube again before going back to breathing on Mickey’s neck as he gets himself ready. He situates them both, lifting Mickey’s legs and bracing himself on one arm, and there’s a little bit of awkward fumbling, but it’s Ian, and unfortunately, Mickey finds most things he does endearing. When he finally pushes in, though, it just feels so fucking _good_.

They’ve had a lot of good sex through the years, but it seems to be one of those things that just gets better all the time. Ian knows what Mickey likes, sometimes better than Mickey himself, and he pulls out all the stops. He bites and sucks and lets Mickey do the same, he enthusiastically encourages Mickey pulling on his hair, and he looks so fucking wrecked when he pulls back enough for Mickey to be able to see his face that it makes Mickey feel like a feral fucking animal in heat.

He cums _hard_ , and Ian fucks him through it, letting go himself once Mickey’s done. He rubs Ian’s slightly sweaty back as they both come down and he pulls out so he can lay beside Mickey without any complaints about how heavy he is. “Jesus, Ian,” he breathes, and he can feel the satisfied smile on his husband’s face against his shoulder. Ian runs a hand through Mickey’s hair, and it feels like he’s been _drugged_. Cleaning up and inflating Ian’s ego can wait.

He wakes up when a pillow smacks him in the face. He’s warm and sore in the best way, but that doesn’t stop him from glaring at his husband, who’s standing over him with his weapon of choice clutched in his hands. “Can I fucking help you?”

“Morning,” Ian says, squatting down next to the bed to give Mickey a kiss, which Mickey does not participate in, thank you very much. “Everyone’s home. They think we should do a movie night since family Thanksgiving was a bust.” He grips Mickey’s shoulder briefly as he stands back up. “Shower first, though. You smell like someone jacked off into a bowl of fruit salad.”

Mickey grimaces at that visual. “Whose fault is that, strawberry shortcake?” he asks, grabbing the bottle that’s still next to the bed and taking note of the fact that it is, in fact, strawberry scented before throwing it at Ian, who catches it just before it hits him in the neck. “Why do we even have that, anyways?”

“I bought it on my way home. That scent was all that was left. Also, I probably coulda cleaned you up better if you didn’t fall asleep before I even had my dick all the way out.” They both know he’s a little bitter because he didn’t, and probably won’t, get any feedback for the frankly _excellent_ sex they just had, so Mickey doesn’t bother even trying to respond. Ian puts the bottle down on the dresser, stepping forward to basically throw his body next to Mickey’s on the bed.

“You were stupid enough to go shopping this morning?” Ian shrugs.

“For my husband, who was stuck in a crowd all morning and deserved a reward for not killing someone, yes.” Mickey feels himself soften at that, and Ian can definitely tell, because he smirks. “Does that earn me some points?” Mickey rolls his eyes.

“Maybe I won’t smother you with a pillow while you sleep tonight.”

Ian smiles, getting right in Mickey’s face so their lips brush just the tiniest bit when he opens his mouth to say, “Just tonight?”

Mickey brings his hand up to pull Ian’s face closer. “Just tonight,” he says against Ian’s lips, punctuating it with a kiss.

\---

The door slams as Lip and Carl come back inside. Franny’s screaming, probably traumatized by what she just witnessed, and Fred’s crying because of the noise she’s making. Liam’s gone to the front door to lock it, and Carl’s quick to do the same to the back door as soon as it’s closed. He’s careful to step over the drops of blood on the floor that Mickey can’t take his eyes off of.

Mickey’s seen Ian’s blood before. Obviously. He’s seen Ian get hurt and taken advantage of. Shit, _he’s_ been the one hurting Ian on a couple occasions, but that doesn’t make it easier. Mickey came in at the tail end of the fight and knew shit was mostly under control, that he should stay back and let the ones with practice handle it, but that didn’t help the fact that he felt his chest constricting when he saw Frank throw the knife when Ian came at him with the bat. Now, Ian’s blood is on the floor, and it’s not an unfamiliar sight, but Mickey fucking hates it.

“Hey, Franny,” Ian says, obviously trying to get some control back in this situation, “you think you can go get the first aid kit? That would really help me a lot.” Franny’s crying slows as she nods, and Debbie throws a thankful look at Ian as she follows her daughter up the steps.

With the noise gone, everything else seems to calm down. Fred stops crying, relaxing in his spot in Lip’s arms where Tami had transferred him so she could save the food she and Ian had been cooking from burning. According to the two of them, no one in this house eats enough vegetables, and they’re on some joint crusade to fix that. Since Lip is trying to argue less with Tami for their son’s sake, and Mickey is compromising so Ian will get off his ass about his drinking habits, and Debbie doesn’t actually think it’s a bad idea to teach Franny to eat a little better than she was able to growing up, it’s very clearly a battle that Ian and Tami are winning.

“You alright bud?” Lip asks Ian, and it’s the ‘bud’ that makes Mickey wanna scream. It’s Lip’s go-to nickname for his younger brothers, but he only uses it with Ian when he feels like Ian needs to be protected, and that’s _Mickey’s_ job, goddamnit.

“Yeah, I’m good. Don’t think I’ll need stitches.”

“You sure?” Carl asks. “Looked like he got you good.” Ian’s holding a towel over the cut, but it had definitely looked bloody before he put it there.

Mickey takes the seat next to him, pulling his injured arm closer by the wrist and taking over holding the towel there. The fond look Ian gives him is almost enough to destroy his resolve and make him get into protective husband mode, but that would upset Ian more than it would help anyone, so he doesn’t let that happen.

“I’m fine,” Ian says, responding to Carl but looking at Mickey.

Franny and Debbie come back with the first aid kit a couple seconds later. Ian had been pretty anal about it being well-stocked at first, and Mickey had been a little irritated at the time, but he’s glad now, even if he’ll never fucking admit that to Ian -- or anyone, for that matter. “Thank you, Franny,” Ian says, extremely over-exaggerated, but Franny smiles shyly at the praise, so it’s probably a good thing.

The cut didn’t hit anything vital, but it’s on Ian’s right arm. He’ll never admit defeat, but he’ll struggle to clean and patch it up on his own, so Mickey takes mercy on him, pulling the bag to himself and getting the peroxide out before subtly taking a deep breath to brace himself and removing the towel from Ian’s arm.

“Jesus,” Tami says from across the kitchen, “go to the fucking ER, Ian,” and, honestly, Mickey’s glad she’s the one that said it. They’re all thinking it, but he’s least likely to snap at her for it.

“It’s not even bleeding that much anymore. They’ll just give me the same bandages I have in there,” he says. Against his better judgement, Mickey doesn’t argue. Ian _is_ the one that spends his days patching up wounds, so he probably knows what he’s talking about. “There are steri-strips in the bag, Mick. Use those.”

And as he’s cleaning Ian’s arm, two things occur to him: One, he hasn’t said anything but _shit_ since he came into the room. Two, Ian is _squirming_ because he’s so uncomfortable with the amount of sympathetic attention on him.

So Mickey finishes dabbing his arm, launches all of the blood-soaked materials into the trash at the end of the counter, and says, completely deadpan, “You shoulda let me kill him when I wanted to.”

It takes a couple seconds. Mickey would guess that Ian probably has to find and dig up some repressed memories to get what he’s saying, but he _cracks up_ , and everyone else visibly relaxes.

“Wait, hold on,” Lip says. “You’re telling me we had a chance to be rid of Frank and _Ian_ stopped it? This Ian?” He points at his brother, who’s still giggling like a little girl at a sleepover next to Mickey.

“‘S what I said,” Mickey remarks absentmindedly as he reads the instructions on the box of bandages.

“When did you give a shit about Frank?” Carl asks a still-smiling Ian.

“He hasn’t since his 11th birthday,” Lip says, and Mickey kind of wants to ask what exactly it was that made an 11-year-old write his father off for life, but the way Ian instantly goes from smiling to throwing a murderous glare at his older brother suggests that he shouldn’t.

“I just didn’t want Mickey to go to juvie. Plus, the rest of you still gave a shit about him back then,” Ian explains. 

“You say that like I woulda gotten caught,” Mickey says petulantly, pulling the bandage from the backing so he can stitch up Ian’s cut.

“You say that like you didn’t make sure everyone in the neighborhood knew you were looking for him,” Ian bites back.

“Wouldn’t’a had to if _you_ didn’t warn him.”

“Wait, juvie? When was this?” Debbie asks.

“Like eight years ago. Mickey was 17,” Ian says.

“You guys have been together for _eight_ years?” Tami asks, a little shocked, because she probably only knows about what their drunk friends said in their speeches at the wedding, which was all re-told information from Ian until they both got out of prison.

“Nine,” Ian clarifies. “In secret for the first two.”

 _Some fucking secret_ , Mickey thinks. All of their living parents, both of Ian’s exes, Lip, Mandy, and probably Linda knew about it by the time Ian ran away. He doesn’t need to ruin the mood with that, though, so he stays quiet and finishes patching up Ian’s arm.

He wraps it up in gauze, too. Ian says he doesn’t need to, but it makes him feel better, so Ian lets it happen. He kisses right above the wrap when he’s done, just at the very edge of Ian’s injured skin, and everyone rolls their eyes. “Both of you are soft now,” Carl says, sounding almost disappointed.

“Mick’s been soft since he didn’t kill Frank because I said I didn’t want him to,” Ian jokes. Mickey huffs, but he doesn’t deny it. There’s no point. Ian fucking Gallagher is his weak spot, and he’s not ashamed of that anymore.

\---

Mickey never thought he’d be the kind of person that would ever be in a position to have an opinion about his job, but oddly enough, he is, and he likes working security. It satisfies him. Growing up the way he did, he learned how to be extremely vigilant from a very young age. He went from that, to prison, to working for a cartel, and back to prison, and that vigilance came in handy even _after_ the wedding when Terry tried to kill them.

Now that Terry’s locked up and Mickey’s pretty confident for a variety of reasons that he doesn’t need to worry about the cartel, there’s literally no need for the skill he spent his entire life perfecting. He doesn't _have_ to look over his shoulder all the time. He and Ian are allowed to do husbandly things to their little gay hearts’ content in their house without worrying about any consequence but a little harmless teasing from their family. It’s weirdly unsettling to not have some looming _thing_ to fear.

And that’s where the job comes in. It makes a helpful use of his eye for small details, especially because he’s also great at stealing because of Terry, and he knows how to spot the signs that someone else is doing it. He doesn’t feel bad about it, either. None of the people he busts are dirty, desperate kids like he was. Most of them are privileged teenagers, taking ugly shit that they can afford without blinking an eye just for fun, and Mickey has no fucking issue stopping them. Plus, after actually holding the job down for a while, Mickey and Ian are getting through each month with a pretty decent amount going into their joint savings _without_ Mickey moving guns with his family. That part makes Ian happy more than anything, but Mickey _likes_ making Ian happy.

Mickey’s 25 years old. He always thought he’d either be dead or doing 20-to-life by this point, _maybe_ working a dead-end job and pretending to fuck women in the best case scenario, but he has a husband that he loves more than anything, he likes his job, his in-laws aren’t so bad, and he’s _safe_.

And, like, Mickey has some problems. He’s learning to admit that. He has nightmares about Terry and Svetlana, he gets overwhelmed by sudden loud noises and he often can’t stand being touched by anyone but Ian -- although, he _is_ getting better about those, living crammed in that house with the Gallaghers -- and sometimes, not knowing exactly where Ian is makes him feel physically unsettled. Ian’s shrink would probably have a field day with Mickey’s shit, but they’re not at that point. They probably won’t ever be, if he’s honest with himself.

He’s not sure if _lucky_ is the right word to use in his situation, but he feels lucky to have a husband that gets it. Ian’s been through some shit, too. He has nightmares, and he panics about losing Mickey on bad days. He understands trauma as well as anyone that’s been dealt the kind of hand they have.

He suspects it probably has something to do with Ian having training in dealing with people during a mental health crisis -- not that Mickey will ever admit that that’s what it is -- but when Mickey snaps at Debbie for whining all the time in front of everyone about her situation in between two of her court dates and retreats to their bedroom after he sees the judgemental looks on everyone’s -- even Sandy’s -- faces, Ian somehow figures out how to make it better.

After giving Mickey a minute to sit by himself in their room, Ian follows him in, shutting the door behind him. He doesn’t say anything, just leans over the bed to open the window, puts a cigarette in Mickey’s mouth, lights it, and sits down quietly next to his husband. Mickey gets halfway through his smoke before he finally asks, “You mad?”

“No,” Ian says simply. 

Mickey takes a breath. It’s not like he never snaps at anyone, but it’s usually either laced with sarcasm or because something bad is going on with himself or Ian. This was just because he felt like Debbie was one of those tiny-ass, irritating-as-shit bugs that fly around your face and land on your stuff only long enough to _plot_ to kill them until you literally wanna break everything around you out of frustration.

It’s been another minute when Ian puts his hand out, palm up with the faded scar from the helicopter still visible when he squints. He lets Mickey have the choice, and ultimately, Mickey wants to hold his husband’s fucking hand, so he does. “You know,” Ian says, “they can treat this kinda stuff.”

And Mickey’s instinct is to lash out again, to yell at Ian and maybe sock him in the mouth for good measure, but they’re working on _not_ solving problems with their fists, and this is Ian trying his best right now, so Mickey just says, “I can’t,” because he really can’t. Contrary to popular belief, he’s not stupid. He knows the name of the thing that’s on the tip of Ian’s tongue right now, and he knows they’re all probably thinking it a lot of the time, but it’s not something he can deal with.

“You don’t have to,” Ian assures him, rubbing his thumb across Mickey’s knuckles, “but if you ever wanna go that route, we can do that.” It’s the _we_ that gets him. He throws the last of his cigarette into a mostly-empty bottle of gatorade on the nightstand and moves closer to Ian so their thighs are touching and lets his husband kiss his cheek. “And if you _don’t_ wanna go that route, you can have the bottle of valium in the dresser,” Ian jokes.

Mickey snorts. Jesus _Christ_ , he loves this man. “Not a fan of downers,” he admits.

“Yeah, me neither.” His face scrunches up adorably, and Mickey just _has_ to kiss him. He has to.

“I love you,” he says against Ian’s lips. 

“Love you, too,” Ian says, then he pulls back, brushing a hand through Mickey’s hair. “I hate it when you feel like this.”

Mickey shrugs. “You always make it better,” and he does.

\---

Mickey’s grabbing his stuff from the back room of Old Army, trying his fucking hardest to avoid the new manager that’s _obsessed_ with the fact that he has a husband, when he gets a text reminder from the pharmacy that says his prescription is ready, which means that Ian hasn’t gone to pick up his refill despite the fact that he got off work hours ago and usually swings by on his way home when he needs to. Mickey doesn’t know what that’s about, if something is happening, or if Ian just forgot, but he calls Ian on his way to the L, and when he doesn’t get any kind of response by the time he reaches the stop closest to their pharmacy, he groans internally. He wants to be at home, but he’s gotta make a pit stop on his way.

If he’s being honest, going to the pharmacy is the one errand he doesn’t really mind. The fact that he can pick up Ian’s prescriptions for him without issue is the only _legal_ benefit they’ve really been able to take advantage of, since their joint insurance is through Ian’s work and he’d be getting it anyway and Mickey hasn’t had any use for it yet. They’re each other’s emergency contact, but there thankfully hasn’t _been_ an emergency that required the other to be called, so, for now, it’s their joint account at the local drugstore that regularly solidifies the fact that they’re _legally_ married.

He stuffs the bags into his pockets as he walks the rest of the way to the house. He still has a reputation, obviously, so no one would be dumb enough to steal drugs out of his hands, but he doesn’t like the _looks_ he still gets when he carries prescriptions around, no matter how used to them he is.

He gets home to what can only be described as chaos, which is par for the course in this goddamn house, but this seems to be the work of Carl’s particular brand of bullshit, which is always a special kind of pain in the ass. He’s gone back to doing less-than-legal shit in the basement after Mickey almost knocked him over the fucking head trying to make him realize that becoming a cop would hurt the people he wants justice for, and it seems to be something that the Gallaghers are conditioned to ignore at this point, because not one of them bats a fucking eye when they hear some dude screaming down there when they’re eating breakfast.

But _this_ , Carl and some tall chick around his age trying to calm down what looks like a mob of prep school drop-outs, isn’t so easy to ignore. A couple of them stop yelling long enough to give Mickey the _I’m better than you_ look, and this is _his_ fucking home, fuck you very much, but he doesn’t even want to _touch_ whatever’s going on here, so he ignores it and fights his way through to see if he can find his husband in this mess.

Ian’s in the kitchen, and Mickey can tell something’s wrong the second he sees him. He’s tense, his hands are practically vibrating, and his hair is all over the place, presumably from him running his hands through it. One arm is occupied by Lip’s kid and the other with a wooden spoon as he stirs a pot of pasta. “Hey, man,” Mickey says. Ian turns and looks relieved by just the _sight_ of him, and these days, Mickey’s gay enough to admit that his husband looking at him like that makes his chest tight in a good way. “What’s with that?” he asks, vaguely gesturing to the living room.

“No idea. He keeps getting, like, three lines into his speech, and they all start yelling. Fred doesn’t like the noise, so I can’t put him down, or he starts screaming, too,” Ian explains.

“Gimme this,” Mickey says, taking the spoon from him. “You look like you need a beer.” Actually, he looks like he’s unraveling and about to have a meltdown, but it’s easier to grab a beer from the fridge, crack it open, and hand it to Ian than it is to acknowledge that. Ian takes a couple gulps right away, drinking _way_ faster than he normally would on his meds and a probably-empty stomach, which only proves that he’s about to lose it. “That bad?”

Ian puts the drink down, wiping his mouth with his free hand. “Franny got sick today. They called me to come get her while I was picking Fred up, so I had to ride the L with a baby and a sick toddler that didn’t wanna let go of me.”

Mickey’s been a part of this family for a while, married into it even, but he’s not gonna pretend he understands their method of everyone collectively parenting anyone younger than them. Still, he _does_ have a soft spot for Franny. He’s pretty sure it’s the hair. “She okay?” he asks.

“Yeah, she just threw up. Pretty normal for kids, but she was upset. She’s in her room now.” Ian steps back from the stove. He grabs a bag of frozen peas from the freezer and tosses them in the microwave. “Lip and Tami are eating dinner with us tonight.”

There’s a bang from the living room and the sound of glass shattering, but the noise gets considerably quieter. “Listen up, pussies,” he hears a girl yell, but her voice gets quieter once she presumably has the attention she wants. Fred’s face screws up, and Ian looks _miserable_ when he desperately starts trying to calm the baby down before he screams, and the way so much tension drains out of him when he’s successful just makes Mickey want to wrap him up and let him sleep for twelve hours in a silent, pitch black room with a million fucking pillows on the bed, but that’s probably not going to happen until all of Ian’s siblings get their collective shit together, and _that’s_ probably not going to happen until hell freezes over.

So instead of doing what he wants to do, he pulls Fred’s high chair from the wall to the edge of the counter so he’ll be within arm’s reach, and he says, “Sounds like they’ve got in under control in there,” when he puts the kid in it and gives him a spoon to play with, because he likes shiny things, apparently. 

“Thanks,” Ian mutters shyly, probably a little embarrassed by his stress level, which doesn’t make sense to Mickey, but he doesn’t pretend to understand how Ian’s brain works. Ian’s phone starts buzzing in his back pocket, and if they could afford a replacement, Mickey would probably smash the damn thing on the spot to give his husband a _second_ of peace, but,

“Lip’s almost here.” He absentmindedly turns the heat off for the pasta. Then, a quiet but extremely frustrated _fuck_ cuts through all of the calm they’ve been creating in the last few minutes as Ian tugs on his hair.

“Jesus, what?” Mickey asks.

“I forgot to pick up my refills. I’m out, and the pharmacy closes in ten minutes.” 

He puts his phone back in his pocket and makes a move to leave, so Mickey grabs him by the arm and pushes him back against the fridge, gripping his biceps. He tries to protest, but Mickey says, “Good thing I already got ‘em,” before he can.

“You did?” Ian looks wild-eyed and baffled, and Mickey decisively does not like it.

“Yes, now can you please take a fuckin’ breath for a second?” Normally, he wouldn’t be so blunt. They’re still learning to navigate dealing with Ian’s mental health as a married couple, but the one thing they both know for fucking _sure_ is that Ian has a habit of lashing out or doing stupid shit when there’s harsh confrontation involved. Now, though, Mickey feels like he’s talking Ian off a metaphorical ledge and harsh is probably the only thing that’s gonna cut through.

Ian takes a shuddering breath, his eyes glassy. “C’mere,” Mickey whispers, arms going up to Ian’s shoulders to prepare for the way Ian tends to scrunch himself up to fit into Mickey’s arms the way he likes, with his arms around Mickey’s waist and his face buried in Mickey’s shoulder. “Just breathe, okay?” Ian nods, holding on even tighter. He hugs with his whole body, and it’s a pattern Mickey’s only recently had the chance to discover, but he _loves_ it now, and he gets to have hugs like this from his husband for the rest of their lives.

Mickey gently scratches the back of Ian’s head. It’s his go-to move for soothing him, and it always works, even now, he thinks, as Ian’s breathing becomes more even. Fred’s banging his spoon on the side of his chair, and they can still faintly hear the assholes in the living room, so it’s not the _most_ romantic setting of all time, but it does the job, and Ian pulls back looking much calmer, even if his eyes are suspiciously red. “Better?” Mickey asks. Ian nods.

He says, “I love you,” which is turning out more and more to be Ian’s favorite way to say ‘thanks’, especially in situations like these.

“I love you, too,” Mickey says, using the hand on the back of Ian’s head to pull him down for a kiss. Their first one since this Ian left this morning, he realizes belatedly.

Mickey wants to say, _I’m your husband, asshole_ , and he wants to say, _I wanna make everything easier for you_ , and he wants to say, _Tell me you need me to be there for you_ before _you’re about to break down in tears in the middle of your family’s kitchen, dumbass_ , but he feels like that’s probably a little too real and heavy when they need to finish making dinner and Lip’s probably gonna bust in the back door without knocking at any second, so instead of saying anything, he kisses Ian again, cradling his head like he’s holding the most precious thing in the world, because he kind of is. 

He hopes Ian gets that.

\---

Mickey’s sick.

Mickey doesn’t even remember the last time he was sick. In the Milkovich house, you tell your immune system not to be a pussy, and you hope for the best. If you’re over the age of 12 and get sick, you let it take its course. You only go to the clinic if you’re _literally_ dying. It sounds fucked up now that he’s out of that situation, but it clearly worked pretty damn well.

Not with the fucking Gallaghers, though. Specifically Ian and his fucking EMT license that has turned him into the authority on all medically-related things for his siblings and their kids, and the teenagers from the Gay Jesus debacle that he’s still in contact with, and a couple of the neighbors, and Mickey, apparently.

He came home from work two days ago with a bag from the pharmacy, and it was _full_ of shit that Ian expects him to take. There were pills, a brand new thermometer, cough syrup -- which Ian took all the fun out of by hiding it and having Lip bring a single dose up to him, saying he’s “supposed to make sure you don’t chase this with anything alcoholic” while Ian was stuck at work -- and some powdery shit that’s apparently supposed to help him get better faster. Ian poured a packet of it into a cup of water, and it was all fizzy and smelled awful, and Mickey’s consumed some gross things in his day, but that shit made him fucking _gag_.

But there are other parts that he can’t quite bring himself to be upset about, like now, when Ian’s playing human pillow despite the fact that staying in bed all day makes him feel like shit and the fact that, according to Lip, he has a fucking joke of an immune system and is probably gonna be down for the count as soon as Mickey’s starting to feel better.

And don’t get him wrong; he feels straight up fucking terrible in every way imaginable right now, but laying his head on Ian’s chest as he drifts in and out of sleep while they let some shitty netflix show play straight through right next to them on their laptop -- a wedding gift from Sandy, so probably stolen -- _might_ make the whole thing a little more bearable.

“Did you know you snore like a fuckin’ chainsaw when you’re sick?” Ian asks as Mickey’s waking up from his third (fourth?) nap of the day.

“Never get sick,” Mickey says, wincing at the sound of his voice and the pain in his throat. “It’s this fuckin’ house.”

“Guess we learned something new, then.” Mickey throws Ian the best glare he can muster up, even though he can _feel_ that his eyes are all watery and red. Ian laughs, kissing Mickey on the top of his head. “Hungry?” he asks.

“No,” Mickey groans.

“Thirsty? Need more meds?”

“No and no.” Honestly, with all the soup, orange juice, and liquid medicine Ian’s been pouring down his throat, Mickey’s shocked he hasn’t fucking exploded. He doesn’t want to add more and risk it.

“Do you need _anything_? Another blanket? Are you comfortable?” Ian’s fingers absentmindedly tap on Mickey’s shoulder, and he _gets it_ , he does. He gets nervous as fuck all the time when Ian’s not feeling good, but he also _kind of_ wants to strangle the guy right now.

“Starting to see why you punched me for this playing nurse shit.”

“Are you saying you wanna punch me?”

“Yes.”

“Noted,” Ian says, and it should end there, but he still looks anxious. Mickey knows he’s being a bitch, and he feels like he’s _earned_ the right to be a bitch about this, but he still doesn’t like that look.

“Just want you to lay here with me,” Mickey admits. Ian looks like he wants to say more, but thankfully, he doesn’t push his luck.

Once that’s sorted out, Mickey gives in to the cough that’s been tickling at his throat since he woke up, and he instantly regrets it when it turns into a full-on, painful coughing fit. He hides his face in Ian’s chest, and Ian rubs his back through it. It doesn’t _really_ help, but it does feel nice once he’s able to get a deep enough breath to stop feeling like he’s about to suffocate.

“Sure you don’t want more cough medicine?” Ian asks, and Mickey can’t even be mad, because he looks too worried for the question to be condescending. Still, he swats at Ian’s chest, because they _just_ talked about this, but he’s also scared to open his mouth again. “I’ll have Carl bring it up. I can stay here.”

And at that, Mickey has to concede. “Fine,” he grumbles. “Better be the good shit that knocks me out, Gallagher.”

“Whatever you want, darling,” Ian says teasingly, reaching down to grab his phone, shooting a quick text to Carl. “You should quit smoking.”

Mickey snorts, though it sounds gross and sort of hurts his throat. “When did you decide to become a comedian?”

“I’m serious, Mick. It’s not that hard.”

“Oh yeah? That why you’ve had to do it three times? Not to mention how you still take some of _my_ smokes when you’re stressed,” Mickey points out, earning an eye roll from Ian.

“Mickey, your lungs sound awful. Sorry if I want my husband to still be able to breathe on his own in 10 years.” 

Mickey sighs. He’s tired and achy, and Ian’s playing dirty talking about their future like that. He’s no doubt gonna regret any response he has right now, but that’s definitely why Ian chose _now_ to bring it up, so he just bites the bullet and says, “I’m not goin’ cold turkey. Will you lay off if I start cutting back?”

Ian _beams_ , leaning down to kiss Mickey before he can manage to swat him away. “Keep your lips to your fuckin’ self. I’m not takin’ care of you if your stupid ass catches this,” he says, which they both know is a blatant fucking lie, but Ian lets him get away with it, settling back down with his arms still wrapped around Mickey.

Carl brings the cough syrup, and Mickey takes it like a shot, cringing at the artificial ‘raspberry’ flavoring going down his throat. He allows Ian to force another half a glass of orange juice into his system before telling him to fuck off, and he sleeps wrapped up in his husband’s arms, because _somehow_ , someone _wants_ to take care of Mickey Milkovich.

\---

Three days later, Mickey’s feeling better, and Ian wakes himself up when he starts coughing in his sleep, and Jesus Christ, Mickey’s gonna be taking care of Ian Gallagher for the rest of his fucking life. Good thing it’s a job he loves to do.

**Author's Note:**

> writing that sex scene was painful for me. please don't just it too harshly ❤️️
> 
> If this is well received, it’s going to be a series. If it’s not, you didn’t see this. Thanks for reading!!
> 
> [my tumblr](https://ianscurls.tumblr.com/)


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